And So The Sands Of Time Weigh On Us All
by Bushyeyebrows99
Summary: What is a nation, what is a human. What is a nation without humans? These restless yearnings, they strive to know.
1. Chapter 1

**And So The Sands Of Time Weigh On Us All**

 **Summary:** What is a nation, what is a human. What is a nation without humans? These restless yearnings, they strive to know.

 **Length** : Two-Parter

 **Ship(s):** America/England, Slight FrUk if you squint

 **Tags/Warnings:** Slight Historical Inaccuracy, History Divergence, War

 **Author's Notes:** Listening to Will Joseph Cook's _Take Me Dancing_ was absolutely lovely while writing this total amalgamation abomination of an idea I had. This story is literally made out of several clipped conversations I was imagining and somehow meshed it all together. So, just brace yourself for that.

* * *

 **Chapter 1:**

 _Two roads diverged in a yellow road, and sorry I could not travel both…_

He was out of the house, wandering through the forest where the trees grew tall and endless. It wasn't like he could go anywhere else anyway, but it was the furthest place available, and therefore his favourite.

It was autumn and breezy, the changing colours of the leaves littered the ground in front of him, filling his vision with browns and oranges and greens.

And reminder of the passing of time, in this seemingly timeless emptiness.

He took a deep sigh, his breath producing heavy fogs that hung in the air, and continued trudging along the pathway, which led straight to the door.

* * *

The first thing he remembers is the fields, vast and free and green.

After that, he recalls unfurling himself from the maze and mess of the tall grass, weaving in and out to get away from all the new – humans, settled there. He had dealt with humans before, who were kind and taught him much about the wilderness, but he had never seen ones quite like these before.

They were dressed in more attire than the ones he was used to, and also looked more…scary.

Before he could go closer and see more clearly, these creatures, these – humans, attacked the others, the ones he knew. Bloody and brutal, and it drove them away.

It was his first taste of war.

He remembers hiding after that, running away in the fields wanting to just get away. He's scared and terrified and just want these men off _his_ land. He stops, confused. When did he start thinking it was his land? When did he know it was his land? He'd never thought of it that way, it was simply land.

Before he could think about it further, he heard something rustling in the tall grass and looked up in shock. In front of him is a man, shorter than the others he saw earlier, but no less intimidating. In fact, he felt stronger, more powerful. He feels familiar, like him.

When he sees the man later, after trying and failing to win him over, he's intrigued. He heads towards the man's huddled form – he's never seen one act like _this_ before, so open and vulnerable – shaking with emotion. He's instantly bewitched.

And when the man looks up, the first thing he notices is that his eyes are green.

* * *

England takes him in and gives him a name. _Colonial America_. The name and language a bit foreign on his tongue but he decides that he likes it enough, since England seems happy. And he'd do anything to see England happy.

England also introduces him to the concept of _human_ names, names to use when walking amongst men. Men who are terrified and flimsy at the thought of nations.

"Humans can be terribly harsh towards the things that frighten them, so we must never reveal who we really are unless to our most trusted." England explained kindly, he seemed to glow whenever he spoke.

"I don't really get it, though. Why do we have to hide? It's unfair." America pouts.

"As are many things in life that you will soon discover." He tutted.

"Humans are naturally afraid of what they do not know. Especially," His voice stooped melodiously, dangerously low, and there was something underneath that lilt that made America shudder, but he could not quite place it. "If the things that confuse them are much, _much_ stronger than they are."

"Come now dear boy, don't sulk. I've got a perfect name for you."

England made his way towards the grand house – big and lonely, his stroll slow but to a young child his every step took America three strides. America struggles to catch up to him. He sometimes feels like all he ever sees of England is his back.

"Wait – England, what's your human name?"

England pauses abruptly and just stands there, America is able to reach him by then, stopping beside him to tug multiple times on his waistcoat.

"England? England? Eeeengland?" He whines. The man has been still for quite a while, seeming to deliberate on something, until he snaps out of it.

He turns around and smiles.

"It's Arthur, my darling, and yours shall be Alfred."

And Alfred positively _beams._

He spends as much time as he can with Arthur whenever he's around. Whenever he's at a meeting in town, Alfred waits outside and plays. Sometimes he's allowed to sit in, though usually he gets bored and uninterested in everything else but the man, who is the stuff his dreams are made of. Arthur has become his whole life and Alfred can't imagine a time before without him, and he doesn't one to imagine one after.

He meets a nice boy one day, whose name he can definitely remember as Davie, a new name on his tongue. It's fun and bouncy when he says it and gives him a sense of joy.

Usually, the other village boys become scared when they see him.

All was well. At least, for a while. That is, until he was encompassed by the sweet arms of Death, wrapped unsuspectingly in a box of whimsy blues.

His first taste of Death, he finds, was a concept quite literally incomprehensible, yet entirely too familiar. And he thinks then, that humans are feeble.

Later that night, Arthur sings him a song about eternity to sleep.

"Arthur," He blurts when he notices he's about to put the candle out. He doesn't want to be surrounded by blackness tonight. "Where would I go if I died?" The word tasted so foreign on his tongue.

"Why, Heaven of course." He replied without hesitation, without sparing even a glance up from the book he was reading – Arthur always starts reading when he thinks Alfred is falling asleep. _The Tempest,_ one of Arthur's treasured favourites. Alfred recalls being tasked to read it but finding it utterly boring after a few chapters. The only line he enjoys enough to commit to memory is when Miranda was speaking of a Brave New World. He likes thinking of what his New World would be like, how he would heroically whisk Arthur away with him – he always looks tired except for when he sees Alfred. He dreams of the vast fields again, with just Arthur and him, where Death is non-existent because neither of them are feeble.

"What about you? Where would you go?"

"Oh, no need to worry about that. I will never let myself die and abandon you all on your own. Still the storm in your heart and know that I am with you always, my darling." He ruffles Alfred's hair gently and gets up. The candle dies with his leave.

It was only a while later that Alfred realised he had never really answered his question.

...

"Alfred, darling, would you like to play a game?"

"Game?" Alfred exclaimed, bouncing enthusiastically from where he was seated. He loved games but he usually had to play by himself, with his little army of wooden redcoats, less the other boys in the village suspect anything. But still, playing with Arthur was the most fun. Alfred sometimes feels like he's been playing games with Arthur even when they weren't, technically.

"Yes, it's quite an old one too, if you don't mind. I promise it is extremely entertaining and important. In my opinion, every child ought to be taught it at least once in their life."

"What is it! What is it! Show me!"

"Patience, patience."

Arthur brought forth a board containing alternating colours of black and white.

"Now, the rules of the game are deceptively simple. What you need to keep in mind is to always plan ahead and never," he pulls out a tall and distinguished piece, black and proud. "lose sight of your King."

"Woaah, is the King really that important? Is it because he's so powerful that once we lose him we'll lose everything?"

"No, quite the opposite actually. The King is the weakest piece on the board. The Queen," he pulls out a more elegant looking piece. "is the one who holds the most power over the battlefield."

"That doesn't really make sense…" He was uncertain now. He had never heard of a King who was weaker than his Queen, except for that lady Arthur likes to talk about a lot. Still – it didn't make much sense to him.

"Sometimes all it takes for a kingdom to fall apart is a single loss. Though you could say that behind every successful King," he sets the pieces down. "is his Queen."

Alfred marvels at the way England plays. He sees the way England strategically whisks the pieces around the board. And when he finally claims victory with a flourish of his dark Queen, Alfred is dumbstruck and enchanted, wishing he had his own Queen as well.

* * *

Alfred stormed into the room, making a whole show of slamming the doors open. England was unfazed, however, and continued scanning through his letters as if he weren't there.

"What do you want?" He asked tonelessly.

"You know what I want, stop treating me like I am some – petulant child."

"Only until you abandon the attitude of one."

Alfred slammed his hands down hard on Arthur's desk, finally forcing the man to look up. Still, there was no more than a sharp look from him before he fell back to a neutral face, shrugging.

"And you are proving my point perfectly."

"Let's play."

The game of chess had become a sort of ceremony between them – to Alfred, at least, it was when they were at their most intimate. Trying to know the other well enough to predict their moves and still being awestruck whenever Arthur inevitably claimed victory, so quickly and easily it was as if every moved was planned from the start – and, knowing Arthur, it likely was. What it came down to was that victory was a proof of intelligence, and Arthur was nothing if not intelligent. Much more than that, he was arrogant, which meant he found every opportunity to flaunt it.

As they played, they communed.

"You think it easy, do you not? That you suppose you can simply strut your gait in here all high and mighty just because you have grown a wee bit taller, and demand autonomy?"

"I don't think it's quite the same, England. My – people. They want fairness, they want their own voice. _I do_. Have you not told me all those years ago that I too would have my own world that I should strive for one as well? Or were you always a prolific liar?"

"Do not misconstrue what I have said in the past?"

"I hardly have."

England sighs tiredly, he lazily shifts in his place and stares through Alfred.

"Tell me something Alfred, do you really want all this?"

Alfred stilled, then made a bold move with his Knight. "What do you mean?"

"You seem, rather…haggard by all this nonsense," Arthur's voice carried more sympathy to it as his expression softened ever so slightly. "Is this really what you want?"

Alfred hesitated, but not for long – though a split second is what usually makes the difference between life or death, victory and defeat. He moves another piece firmly, defiantly.

"Fine. Then I ask you one question," England makes another move, swiftly ridding him of his last Bishop. Though when he looks up, his face is devoid of any of the usual smugness in it and in its stead, a look that strips Alfred bare, staring into his soul.

"Can you kill?"

He tenses.

"It's part of becoming a strong nation, you know?" He says it so facetiously, as if he were discussing the weather outside – which is as black as what Alfred envisions England's heart to be like – if he even has one. Alfred certainly believed he used to.

"At one point, even if you somehow manage to avoid it up to this point, war is inevitable. It is as necessary to our kind as the blood that flows through the humans. Perhaps that is why they enjoy seeing it spilled so much." He stops as if to ponder that notion. "Do you have what it takes to bring yourself to do that? Knowing that you have stained your hands with the stench of blood?

 _Are you willing to become a monster?"_

Alfred remains silent. He is not looking at England, his heart pounds in his chest, against his ribcage, bursting – the sound resonating and beating against every bone and vein and pore in his(?) body and it is _terrifying_ yet –

"That is what we are, you know? We kill without empathy because that is what we are trained to do from the very start. We know their lives, we understand their pain – too intimately – and yet, we still leave their battered bodies on the ground, and their families helplessly waiting for a day that will never come." And he has taken away yet another Pawn.

"I –" Alfred starts, but he can feel the empty words in his mouth forming and breaking apart and doing so all over again, clogging up his throat. England does not spare him a chance to finish, but when has he ever? The man has always relished being ahead of the game, vicious and uncaring for whose corpse he has to step on to get that lead.

"Because if you can't, _never_ request for something like this again." He moves his King, and Alfred hastily counters with his Queen. "You cannot save everyone, what would you do if you killed a man during battle, having never done so before? A man who you very well know has a life of his own that you so cruelly took away."

"Can you live with that? Cold-blooded murder?"

 _Probably_. He thinks, but dares not voice.

"I – there's no need for – "

"For what exactly? Murder? War? Death? I'm afraid you really are as naïve as you appear. There is always a need for battle and there will always be excuses to have one, if only because the humans relish in it."

"Do you get it now, Alfred? In this game – and that _is_ what this is, for the record. A game between us _adults_ ," Empires, he implies, however his use of human terminology stabs something sharp and deeper into Alfred. "You are not the King, not the Queen nor the Knight or even the Rook.

You, my dear lad, are no more than a _Pawn._ "

Alfred glares at him, madness masking his face and anger in the lines of his eyes. The slender mould of the Queen he held onto breaks in his hand, and he makes quite the show of storming out of the room, slamming the door so loudly that England nearly flinches, even.

The silence that permeates the room mere seconds later is lonely.

Sighing, he glances over to the scattered chessboard, where a broken Queen and a few pieces remain. A mark of their previous encounter. His eyes are downcast.

"Tsk, the little upstart's getting a bit too big for his britches."

With a few more moves, America would have had England in checkmate.

* * *

England had fallen, and America had left.

War was, indeed, painful and brutal.

* * *

 **[1916]**

"How are your boys?"

"They are as terrible as you look today, Angleterre."

"What a terrible sense of humour you possess." He quips back, though he feels a tinge of remorse a bit after. France has sounded lifeless and beaten when he spoke.

"And what a terrible situation we are all caught up in. Let me live, I feel as if I have not been doing so the past few years."

England stiffened and shuffled towards the rickety cabinet, before placing a familiar object in front of a battle-worn France.

"Here, it wouldn't do anyone any good if you're in this mood during battle. What an absolute downer you would be."

"This is coming from you?" France questioned sceptically, though he nonetheless popped open the bottle of rum and downed most of it in one go. England couldn't bring himself to complain.

When he was done with nearly two-thirds of the dusty bottle, he set it back down with a _thud_. "Agh, tastes as I expected from you; an old bitch with its tongue cut off could have made better."

"Oh as if I give a rat's arse what you think. In case you haven't noticed, this is the best you're going to be getting for a long time." He spat, surprisingly furious though he didn't come off as such – much, anyway.

France, however, was a master at detecting when England, in particular, was being a bitch.

"Oh Angleterre, you have never liked acknowledging your humanity."

"What humanity is there to speak of, from creatures such as us."

"It is rather funny to me though," France began, looking pointedly down at the table as his one hand loops circles around the tip of the grimy-green bottle. "Because I feel that you, more so than any of us, have always wanted to be more human."

"Oh? Have I really imparted such an impression on you? Then again I suppose you were never the most observant."

"Oh contraire, cheri, I do believe that you strive to be like them, God knows why. But I think it is because without them, we become much like pets without owner, monsters with no direction to go. You think us all savages so you try to imitate them, with your 'gentlemanly' attitude and such. Ah, but war was always a gentleman's battle was it not? I suppose that is how we are able to love, in the end.

By mimicking them."

"Of course you would bring this up." England muttered. "Can't you just leave me alone? I made my choice to not get involved in the frontlines, I have let you lived for tonight and you would be apt to return the kindness I so generously delivered you." He snaps, his glare promising wrath of France did not relent.

Sighing, France sets down his piss-poor excuse for a taste of life and points an accusing and patronising finger at England, shaking his head as he does so in what looks irritatingly like resignation. Whatever, the Frenchman had always adopted a rather _laissez-faire_ attitude to life himself, who was he to judge England?

"England, you really do hold the longest of grudges."

"So what?" He scathed.

France brings his hands up in mock surrender, smirking. "How does the saying go again? Ah – don't shoot the messenger. I am merely saying that it is unwise and impractical to hold grudges as long as you do. Such as you most certainly cannot execute a whole village for one act of sin, you cannot begrudge dead men. This particular battle is out of our hands."

"How hypocritical of you," England begins icily. "to accuse me of holding grudges for longer than any of our kind would think sensible – as if a wine-sodden bastard like yourself hasn't taken every conceivable opportunity to bitch and moan at me or anyone else who cares to listen about your _mon amour_ Jeanne –"

The sound of old glass slamming against wood cut England's cruel sentiments short.

"Angleterre. The ice you are treading on is very, _very_ thin."

"Hah, as if I don't feel the weight of it under my boots everyday." England countered, unfazed, though he is aware he's crossed a line he even promised himself to never cross and that he's being petty now.

England has always been a cold country.

France's hands are shaking ever so slightly, though he does still them a little by rubbing the tension from his forehead. He's still got bits of soil and ash under his nails.

"You're a troublesome one to look after you know, Angleterre?"

"You don't say?" He smiled dryly.

* * *

 **[1918]**

"You never did answer my question."

America paused, the lit fag in his right hand mid-way from his mouth. The left hand, he notices, is loosely clutching his rifle. He has taken up smoking recently, ever since it was roaring alongside the Great War. England thinks it makes him look older, wearier. He doesn't like it.

"What are you talking about? Finally gone crazy like the rest of your boys?"

England winces and glares at America's casual insensitivity, who rolls his eyes in annoyance. Somewhere far off to their right there was a man – a Robert H. Johnson, he believes – who lay blind and deaf, sporadically twitching at the slightest movement. He is days away from death, and England can't thinl of a more merciful thing for him right now. It was the situations like these that make him remember why he had backed out of the frontlines after the absolute wreck that had been Somme.

He carries on and pretends the man isn't there. He won't be for long anyway.

"If you could live with it, murder."

America looks confused and pauses for a while, trying to recall. Then all of a sudden, he laughed, the sound echoing throughout the frontlines. A few of their men – American as well as British, they were all mixed together – were jolted out of their slumber and loured menacingly in his direction. Rest was difficult to come by in these parts. America simply brushed them off.

"Look at where we are now, old man. I don't think it matters much anymore, whatever I say. S'not like we have much of a choice, right?"

England hummed to himself, skillfully snatching the lit fag from America, bringing it up to his mouth to take the first drag.

He exhaled, the tendrils of grey rising high above them, mixing seamlessly with the leftover smoke and debris from the dead arms scattered throughout the No Man's Land. America is staring as England remains silent while he watched them all bleed together into the grey of the morning light before facing him with a wry, old smile.

"Lose sight of your humanity and you become the very monster they expect of you."

When they are back at camp, they undress. England can't help it when his eyes edge ever so dangerously towards America, whose body, he realises, has become littered with scars and grime.

And he was staring only because of that.

"It terrifies me, sometimes." He mentions offhandedly.

"What does?" And oh, England's _something_ skipped a beat when America stares at him so innocently, so curiously.

"How well suited you are to the look of war, America."

"I feel like we all become that way at some point. No thanks to them."

England glances up, he's been more worried recently. America has been, odd. Different. "I do think so, unfortunate as it may be."

With the awkward silence that permeated the room, England became very engrossed with tracing the lines on the map they had spread open on the table; Red pins marked success, White marking retreat, and Blue marked the infantries. Three married colours.

"You're afraid of me." America blurted suddenly. He had said it as if it were a fact.

"Don't be daft, boy. I find that implication highly insulting."

"But you are, though. Don't lie to me, just stop lying to me."

"It seems that the only one doing the lying around here is you. Coward."

"That's fucking rich, coming from you Scrooge McGrump."

"of course, you _would_ retaliate with some form of childish verbal abuse. Typical."

"Jesus that's fucking _it_!" America roared. "Why are you always like this? I'm trying to help, I'm here, aren't I? What more do you want from me!"

"As if I want anything that you have to offer." England spat back, venom dripping from his tongue.

"Yeah? Right. You've practically been begging on your knees for me to enter this war. Face it, England. You need my resources, you need _me_."

"Unfortunate necessities. War is war and it drains one dry." England responded in a plummy voice, unmoved.

It was then that America forcefully jerked his hand upward to cover England's mouth with a tight grip, nearly suffocating him in the process.

"You're always lying to me." He said breathily whilst England glared back, clawing at his hand.

America slams his free hand beside England's head, stilling England's actions. The force of the impact creating craters not unlike those crafted by the meteors that strike celestial entities, the one's that last long after they're all nothing but stardust and rubble. But it is not as intimidating as it's supposed to be, because he buries his head in England's neck, sounding so desperate and broken as he demands rather than speaks:

"England, can I trust you?"

England hesitates, but not for long. He lifts his palms; one to caress his cheek, and the other to gently lace his worn fingers together with America's calloused ones. Just like how they're supposed to be – tangled, intertwined, _connected._

His silent answer of _"Of course you can."_

He doesn't believe it either.

* * *

 **[1943]**

"Yo, France. How's it hanging around here?"

"Ah, sorting through some documents. An incredibly boring and tiring task for the likes of me, but these are tough times." He sighed dramatically.

France was busying himself with rationing details. The Allied meeting having commenced as usual a few mere hours before; America said something stupidly naïve, England scoffed and the two bickered, unresolved sexual tension practically flooding the room. China looked perturbed and confused by them before rubbing his temples and dismissed it, muttering something about 'Westerners' as Russia stood to the side, musing all of this. He feels like there was someone else there, but he's too tired today to really think.

This routine was getting old, even for France.

"Yeah, yeah." France's eyes shifted, noticing how America fidgeted slightly. "Anyway, have you seen England at all? Haven't seen the old grouch since he stormed out after I mentioned – some stuff."

France raised his eyebrow sceptically but decided it wasn't worth deliberating too much on America's slip-up. He shrugged nonchalantly.

"He is as elusive as ever, I see. Give up chasing after him, if he doesn't want to be found then he will not be."

America looked disturbed by the answer, expression darkening immediately. His reaction was off-putting, in ways that France couldn't explain, but he knew anger when he saw it.

"Whatever, thanks for nothing." He stuffed his hands angrily into his pocket and turned to leave.

 _Ah, uneasy in love. I suppose it wouldn't be too much for big brother to offer some advice._

"Be careful Amérique." France warned casually.

"For I have never known England to be kind." He could see America stiffen in his peripheral vision.

"He was kind to me – once." America added hastily.

"Was he really, though?" France rolls his eyes. "I bet it must have made you feel really special, thinking that you had once been able to break through his ice cold heart."

"Well, better the devil you know right?" America shrugged his broad shoulders, not giving the satisfaction of an answer. "England's good for me."

"England's not good for anyone."

"Too bad I guess, sucks that I'm in love, huh?"

France sighs in anguish, shaking his head. He had long lost all care for the mounds of papers and documents in front of him.

"Love is selfish, love is blind – it rings true. How scary, you and England; you're both willing to hurt whatever and destroy whoever you so choose for what you want."

Even yourselves.

 _Oh Jeanne, how I wish you were here._

 _Not even God can save these lost souls anymore._

* * *

 **[1945]**

Hospitals during wars was the Devil's hearth.

It was here that England seemed to have made a home for himself, far away from the battle, again. Thinking he could simply tend to the dying, give them some semblance of peace before they passed, more often than not, in pain.

France himself was not here as a nurse, but rather, a patient. Having had a part of his arm and entire leg blown off during a raid. He would heal soon enough, but it still hurt like a bitch.

In the midst of his suffering as his body tried to piece together dried blood and flaky skin, he can't help but loathe England for acting so disgustingly gentile and _compassionate_ towards those faceless men – it didn't matter their identity, for they would all be dead come next moring. Few managed to make it through the night.

As the hours passed with not even so much as a glance, England finally tended to the last man, who was coincidentally France's bedside partner. He assumes it was intentional, though he knows that if he points it out England would firmly deny that fact, and he was much too tired to get a rise out of him now.

England lights a small flame and places it by the man's bedside. His voice soothing as he comforted the man, who France was sure could not hear him. Though maybe that was a final grace from God; England's honeyed words were annoying to sit through.

France strained his neck to the side, upon closer inspection, the soldier was actually much younger than he anticipated, looking well into his late teens. England was still murmuring away with his silver tongue, cradling the boy's hand as he did so. France felt something twist inside of him.

"What makes this one so special that you would willingly grace him with your presence on his deathbed?" He hissed out, feeling his chest spike higher. "Would it not be perhaps, for his blonde hair and blue eyes? His age? How laudable of you to claim you treasure all your colonies equally. You may as well link arms with that disgusting _Boche_ at this point – "

"Oh lord, would you please stop alluding everything I do to _him_. Unless you wish for me to bring up your unmentionable." It was an underhanded tactic, but England finally looked up at him, though he was clearly unimpressed.

"Oh, sweet England, nothing you ever say can mar my memory of her. She is forever an angel in my heart, and you, the devil."

"I sincerely hope you're suffering right now. In fact, why don't you just die off already, at least then I won't have to put up with you burning holes into my skull for a few hours- days, if I'm lucky."

"Ah, you're as accommodating as ever, I see." France's words were laced with sarcasm, though England _had_ been earlier – only sparing his smiles and warmth for those poor unfortunate souls that should be would into the already cramped floors, looking to be the hand that saves.

The fallen soldier had stopped moving. He had stopped doing anything. England let go of his hand to reach forward and shut his eyes, bringing the bedsheet over his head as a reminder for tomorrow. France snorted, ugly and loud.

"You're utterly disrespectful."

"Please, as if you could possess love for anything that is not so blatantly six-foot-two, stupid and American."

"You know we only love our humans."

"I rather dislike the notion that love should be forced this way."

"Forced?"

France shakes his head, even though he has to strain his body to do so. "I see the humans much in the same way I see rats, or cockroaches, scurrying around like the dirty, nasty creatures that they are. Truthfully, I do not spare much thought for them."

England stared at him incredulously. "You do not care for your people? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe."

"I never said that. We are not all like you, England. Humans make up who we are, I appreciate all that they are for me, but I realised a while ago that there is nothing beyond that."

"How ludicrous."

"Ah, yes. Well, you have always loved a bit too much for your own good."

England clammed up after that. They remained in this stale sort of silence for a while, the only sounds coming from those who could still afford to rest and the other nurses shuffling about, who whispered to each other in hushed voices, as if the intangivle evil hanging in the room would come for them too, if it hadn't already.

"…then I suppose it is why I can love him." He whispered. "The dumb boy doesn't realise how human he himself is, sometimes."

"Mm, he fits the emotional profile."

"He's just trying to do the right thing."

"They do say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

"So they do."

"How mych of this road are you willing to pave for him, Angleterre?"

"As much as it takes."

"For what?"

"For him to be done."

"…you know, despite our differences, you were the first I ever – "

"What? Ever what, England?"

He sighed, shoulders sagging as he buried his face in his hands. "Nevermind, it's all so useless now."

"Indeed." France dismissed. "I would think you know better now than to put your faith in matters of the heart."

"Haven't you always claimed to know about those things?" He said exasperatedly.

"And look at where that got me."

England squeezed his eyes shut and sighed once again, two for luck, crossing his arms defeatedly.

"Everything around me is like a prison; I see prison, in all its forms – "

"Human as well as in the shape of bolts and bars. How nice of you to quote one of mine for a change."

"Loathe as I am to compliment you, I find the line rather fitting. We are very much trapped in our human bodies, reduced to the same limitations; whole, inseparable. Like monsters who wear the faces of men." As he said this, he brought his hand up to obscure his face, as if he wanted to rid himself of a mask that wasn't there.

"We are not their humanity, but rather, their self-love."

"Ah, yes. Man naturally desires not only to be loved, but to be lovely, non?:"

"I think my darling is trying to be lovely."

"What a splendid job he's doing, preparing to unleash his own brand of hell unto the world."

"He thinks it'll help – bring about 'Peace' or whatever."

"'Peace'? We're all far too late for that."

"I'd sooner wish for the Devil himself, at least he is straightforward in his intentions."

* * *

 **[1939]**

"Hey, England, what would you do if I told you I love you?"

"I'd spit it back in your face."

"Heh, yeah, I thought so."

"Then why bother to ask? By the way, you're not subtle at all."

* * *

 **[1943]**

 _Cynic, England was, a man who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. It was this very same England who was currently, even lovingly – one might say, cradling a young boy in his arms._

 _The boy was small, though England would not be fooled. He had seen him lift the weight of a full grown bull with just his tiny hands. It was most definitely certain. This boy would grow to be a strong nation, with power flowing through his veins._

 _He felt himself shudder at the thought._

 _It was_ terribly _exciting._

 _He stared down at him. His face was framed with soft, blonde hair, almost glowing in the sunlight. His cheeks were pressed against England's chest, puffing out quite comically. England found himself smiling softly at this, a single thought passed through his mind –_

I'll protect you.

 _And it left as soon as it came. He shook his head. What was wrong with him? This boy would need no protecting. With the strength he possessed, he should be the one humans needed protecting from._

But still.

 _The boy suddenly stirred awake, facing England with wide, blue eyes. England's eyes widened as he stared back, unsure of what to do. The little one stared for a while longer, before he slowly reached out a finger._

 _England held his breath in wait._

 _Then the boy poked one of his eyebrows curiously, and he let out a high-pitched laugh, loud and clear. England's face flushed – to think! He was being made fun of by a mere infant! Him. The Bloody British Empire. Needless to say he had anticipated something more…sophisticated than that._

 _Despite that, his chest swelled with an emotion he dare not name and he gave a tremulous smile._

"Would you ever love me, as much as you love your humans?"

Arthur was snapped out of his reverie, mind lost in his thoughts of the distant past. He quickly straightened his back and looked up lazily at Alfred.

"I don't think it can be helped." He drawled. "We're all programmed to do so unconditionally after all – you too. It's in our blood. The fact that we even have blood should say as much."

"I don't, though. And you already love me – unconditionally."

"Don't flatter yourself too much. But, well, you've always been quite the anomaly haven't you?"

"France too, he – "

"Yes, yes, I know all about the Frog. I do have to admit he's quite the special case – an ironic case too, actually – though he's smarter than you. He has not renounced the human race quite like you have."

"'Renounced'" Alfred scorned. "Like I'm obligated, like I'm – fucking abandoning anything important,"

"Well aren't you?" Arthur groaned, too used to the same talking points to be exasperated anymore.

"No!" America's furrowed brows betraying his guilt. "I, it's not like I hate them. They have every right to live and let live or whatever, I just _hate_ that they drag us into this mess. That we have to obey what they do, that we don't have the freedom to choose what we want."

"I mean, when are we us – are we even us?" Alfred stammers, digging and gripping the sides of his heads so tightly England was surprised he had not drawn blood. He was afraid of letting go, as if it was all he was doing to hold himself together, and that his sanity would follow soon after his trembling fingers.

"Oh, darling," England sighed. And sighed again when America did not budge.

"When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools."

…

"Look at this."

"…the rain?"

"They say that rain is the ladder that leads to Heaven. All the men who died here today are fortunate to have appeared before the gates of Paradise."

"'Fortunate'. Is that what you would call this?" He growled.

He gestured towards the carnage surrounding them. The ground littered with dead men, gruesome scenes of pure, raw, bloodshed on full display. Their uniforms so stained with violent blood it was difficult to distinguish between whose side any one soldier was from. It hardly mattered in the end, for they all met the same fate; Death was a cruel mistress.

"Don't you find it ironic? Water, water everywhere, and not a drop for these poor souls to drink."

"Stop. Just, stop avoiding – the question."

"I think them fortunate for their suffering is cut short."

"They wouldn't – shouldn't even have to experience this suffering!"

"It seems to me, darling, that you don't quite understand the human conditions. Conflict and mortality have always been the most prevalent. Peace and resolution have never played any part in it."

"Go to hell, England."

"Oh, but can't you see?" He spread out his arms under the sky, as if to pray – or was it the other way around?

"We're already here."

" _God,_ how infuriating you are!" He crashed both his palms to his forehead, refusing to look.

"And what do you feel about all of this, Mr. United States?"

"…when did you become so cruel England?"

"It takes one to know one." England hummed for a bit, staring out until the blissful grey sun rose from the horizon of the dead. They were always the last one to leave this vast field of human waste, just Arthur and him, both of them silent and feeble.

America had fallen to his knees, shaking and aquiver with sick. "What's the point if we have to live and live and live like this just to _suffer."_

And it was as if everything had clicked together.

"It may come as a shock to you, I'm not quite sure, but it is times like these that make me feel most human." England said breathlessly, turning back to give America a dry smile.

"Cruel, aren't I?

But wouldn't you agree?"

The tension between them was palpable as they made their way back to the tent that night. Immediately, America shoved England harshly onto the low-lying wire mattress. Never one to back down, England dug deep scars into Alfred's back as he grasped tightly onto Arthur's neck, holding him down with it as he fucked him raw and hard onto the springy mattress. The rusted metal inside it squeaking every time America thrusted, in sync with England's throaty moans.

America finished with a groan, he collapsed down onto Arthur, still fully sheathed.

"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," He murmured into his neck, kissing softly at the bruises and bites left behind from earlier. England ran his hands through Alfred's sweat-matted hair.

"I know, darling."

"How do we always manage to ruin everything?" He asked, voice watering.

"I don't know."

* * *

 **[1941]**

"What is this." England only ever seemed to ask questions in sarcasm or demands. America never noticed it until now.

"Flower, roses. For you, they're yours."

Indeed, in America's arms were a bouquet of lovely Tudor roses. White and red, green stalks bound in blue wrapping paper; as over-the-top as the man himself. He can tell they were lovingly hand-picked, for while the stalks were trimmed down, the thorns remained. Lovely as they are, however, they looked rather uninviting at the moment.

"This is lovely and all, but what is the occasion. Surely you did not travel all the way here for a simple gift?"

"No, England. It's for _you_. I love you."

Well, now that was a bit unexpected. He supposed he should have seen this coming.

"America, I don't have the time for this today. Bloody hell, we have a war going on, what's brought you to this? Desperation?"

Something stirred inside America at that moment. It was cold, the cold always followed where England was concerned, how did he even fall in love with the man?

He grabbed England's hands, cold and porcelain in his tight-fisted grip. First, he brought it up against his lips, featherlight, kissing the ring. Then he took them to frame his face. A promise to have and to hold. His expression pained and raw.

He felt England flinch, and he dared to hope it was because he was feeling.

"What do my feelings mean to you, England?"

"It means nothing." He hissed, tugging his hands away harshly, wanting to get away.

"Are you quite done yet?" He flicked a speck of dust off one of his old pullovers. Bored. Unamused.

"That's just how it is for us, 'feelings' are as personal as they are politics. A terrible mix, really. And one that can never be satisfied."

"That's just how it is for us, they are as personal as they are politics. A terrible mix, really. And one that can never be satisfied."

"You really think that's it? No other reason than fucking _politics?_ "

"Well, it is just so awfully convenient for you to be professing your love for me at this time is it not? What with you setting your own stage for the world and all. I might as well prepare my uniform alongside my wedding dress if we are to engage in this occasion of yours."

"My ideals are the same as yours. Arthur, I'm in. _Fuck_ I've practically always been in, but the fucking _humans,_ they didn't want that. But I did. I've always wanted you, to be with you." He smiled.

"Well you got one thing right, at least. You were always so greedy…tsk. I never said that our ideals were different. I was merely pointing out how terribly coincidental this all is."

"You're so difficult sometimes," He winked.

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't now, would I?"

"Nah, I love you like this." England flushed, and America's smirk grew wider. He loved seeing England finally fall off his holier-than-thou attitude, _adorable._ He kissed England on the cheek afterwards.

"Do you want to end up with cinders tied to your ankles?" England threatened, glaring at his antics. America felt his chest tighten, but oh, he was still smiling, still pained.

"Stay with me forever, 'kay England?"

…

"It is to my knowledge that wretched ideas start from wretched people. The sin of ambition burdens the hearts of many a man, and too often does it come with petty meanness."

"Jeez babe, do you have to always be so roundabout?" America whined. Then chuckled when England tried to whack him with his stray boot.

"You're such a twat." He huffed. "Simply put: The world falls apart when man decides to play God."

"Yeah, but even the best laid plans of mice and men, right? S'just always seems like something always has to go wrong. Just look at all this, it's one giant mess."

"…America, may I ask you what you think war is for?"

Tapping his fingers on his chin, America spoke up again.

"Hmm…Power, would be my first guess. Humans love power, right? Yeah. Then my second guess," He thought for a while more. "My second guess would be Peace, then Love. 'Cause you can't love without Peace."

He looked to his side to see England smirking sadly.

"How terribly naïve of you. It is for nothing."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing." England waved him off. He had shuffled on the boot he previously used as a temporary weapon and straightened himself.

"I just hope you never lose sight of what you're looking for."

* * *

 **[1944]**

"There's gonna be peace after all this, you hear me. I swear it." He murmured against England's ear, smoky voice causing him to shudder involuntarily.

"Peace has always been a fool's paradise."

"Then I guess I've always been one, huh?" He smiled sheepishly, but the grip around England's waist was anything but shy.

America leaned down to rest his face against England's neck, nuzzling. As he spoke, his words seemed to rumble through England's entire being.

"I'm gonna get my peace, even if I have to show the world I'm the bad guy to be a hero."

England didn't bother to comment on the contradictory statement. He hadn't the energy nor the power to convince America of anything anymore. He reached up a hand to blindly smooth over America's cheek.

"I love you, England."

"Of course, Love."

* * *

 **[1956]**

"And what colours should we bloody the world with next? The pitch blackness of the bombs clouding your mind, or the weighty blues that stain your soul? And how beautiful will the skies be when we are all but done?"

"Have you? Found out what stains your soul and all that?"

"Red."

England did not hesitate, he did not have the time to waste to do so.

"Pure and primary. I think the most befitting of someone like me."

"Yeah, I can see it."

Red, the colour England used to don all the time. The colour Alfred used to excitedly wait out at the docks to catch a glimpse of. It went well with many things: Rich gold accents, silver sharp weapons, blue cloudy skies, green endless oceans, black choking smoke –

Red suited him well. But _god_ , he hated red.

"'Instead of the cross, the albatross hangs from my neck', her weight, heavy and crushing on my mortal shoulders."

" _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ , huh? I don't remember the last part being in there, sweetcakes." He gritted out.

England carried on as if he hadn't heard him.

"One day, Alfred, you will be crucified and sent to the gallows, the guilt wrung tight around your neck. You will suffer the consequences of your albatross, one day. It will hang you with the weight of your burdens and tear you apart."

England looked back at him with a watery smile. Voice thick with emotion.

"And when that happens, you will be put back together all to do it again."

…

"White." England said suddenly.

"What?"

"Blinding white, that's what you are."

* * *

 **[1942]**

"Marriage is still the most effectual way of solidifying alliances. I do have to agree.

Why, where are all the documents and the grand displays and the celebrations?" Arthur remarked sarcastically.

Alfred simply rolled his eyes at Arthur's usual sarcasm, and held his breath.

They stood in wait – well, wait because Alfred simply insisted in his too-optimistic tone that he wanted to get the timing right. By the dawn's early light, he insisted. And despite all, Arthur could never resist him. Standing toe-to-toe under the blessings of an old, abandoned church, tucked away in their own corner of the world. Well, if he wanted to be romantic about it, at least. He doubted Alfred planned that far ahead.

"This won't go on any records, I promise. It's just us, our marriage. No empire, no alliances, and no stiff politicians breathing down our necks.

We're just people, two people who're in love – who've been in love, and we're getting married to prove it. I want this to be just us, just Alfred and Arthur, before America and England.

So, do you take my hand, my betrothed?"

He held out his palms for Arthur to take.

And he did.

"Funny," Arthur started, though his tone was soft. A trickle of light broke through the cloudy stained glass. "I always thought you despised human traditions."

"I like some of them, marriage, definitely. It's quaint. You know me, I just don't like – the fights. The wars."

"I do wonder sometimes whether or not you truly despise it as much as you would claim. Now hurry up and put a ring on it, we're wasting time here."

"You're so impatient, babe." But he was smiling, and in that moment England felt like doing so too.

"Swear yourself to me, and I to you. Until we both reach our end, till our very last breath, till death do us part," Arthur snorted, and Alfred broke his unnaturally serious character for a moment and let out a fruity laugh.

"You are mine and I am yours. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer,"

"For better, for worse." England finished softly.

They sealed their marriage with two cigarette buds that Alfred had reserved for the occasion, the yet-unsinged ends meeting together in an almost chaste kiss, before being lit by a single lighter. England felt too warm to look up and meet America's gaze, uncertain of what he would and wanted to find.

The smoke formed hazy columns leading up to the sky, as if they too sought a ladder to the Heavens.

They hadn't kissed that day, they reserved that for when the war was over.

For when one side would come out victorious.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary:** Yet perhaps to know more is to love less. And to love less creates a monster.

 **Author's Note:** Lol this fandom is dead but if you're still here hi!

* * *

 **[1917]**

Fools do in the end what wise men do in the beginning.

England was no fool but _oh_ , England was not wise.

"When all this is said and done," England whispers. "Take me dancing, won't you?"

In moments of incredible weakness and desperation, he broke down. Soft, but to America, it was all he ever wanted to hear, now and forever.

…

 **[1793]**

It was forbidden for nations to, _engage_ , with humans in that manner, but courtly love was big in France.

 _"You know, I never thought you to be so pathetic as to rely on a woman to fight your own battles."_

"'All is fair in love and war'. As I recall, it was one of yours who coined that term."

"Who are you talking to?" She asked from beside him. Her voice still raspy from earlier.

"Ah, nobody _mon ange._ "

France has only met her three times in his entire life. First was when she boldly knelt before the King, a brave little girl in front of pure power, swearing herself to serving _him,_ his land. She met her fate with dignity.

The second time, _oh_ the second time.

France recalls that day, just a few – _mere_ – hours before, he was with _her_. Kissing up her neck, unlacing her corset, feeling her, becoming the closest two beings could ever get. It was the most intimate that France had and ever will feel with anyone. It was fitting for her to be reborn as a noblewoman, elegant and gentile. Not exactly the same as she was when he fell in love but when were any of them, ever?

The next time he sees her, her head is displayed for a crowd if bloodthirsty peasants, eyes devoid of any of the playful liveliness, bashfulness, beauty, he had seen earlier. It was devoid of everything. He keeps looking, he will not recoil, because he owes her that much.

He can't help but think of how ugly it all seems now.

How cruel the world is, to the young.

…

 **[1943]**

For once, things were silent.

Well, only because of the fact that he had taken solace in the garden gazebo, far away from all the riff-raff of their usual meetings. It was extremely taxing, sometimes. Being in a room full of the worst personalities, how they managed to work still astounded him.

He brought his Black tea up when he heard footsteps crunching the ground.

"Ah, so this is where you scurried off to."

Oh, he had been expecting, well, nevermind.

"So it is."

"Your little monster earlier," France looked behind him. "He seems to be looking for you. Did you do something to annoy him or anything? He looked scarier than you do after you're three sheets to the wind."

"It's usually him doing the annoying."

"Eh, it goes either way with you two, honestly. You're both insufferable."

" _You're_ incorrigible."

France brings his hand to his forehead, eyebrows pinched together. He takes a seat opposite to England, diametrically opposed.

"People can't love without peace, was what he said." England decided to confide. God knows why, but he's used to pouring over meaningless fluff and angst with Francis. They've been through so much together, it feels second nature.

"Well that's just plain stupid. War certainly seems to breed romances fit for legends." France laughs to himself at his own inside joke.

"Hm. I think he means that the element of peace is required to love."

"What peace do you of all people provide?"

England shrugs, he is as clueless about it as France is.

"I'm not quite sure myself. I can never tell what he's thinking, and I feel as though we will never understand each other. It's so ironic – we're desperate to seek each other out, as if we spend our whole lives looking for each other, but when we meet we'll never be able to fit quite right. Yet there's no one else that even comes close to matching what we already have." 

"But it doesn't matter," France looks startled for a second. England brought the cup up again, but behind it, France though he saw the hint of a smile.

"I'll be beside him no matter what."

"Oh my, selfless love certainly is a scary thing."

England almost spits out his tea, and perhaps he should have, if only to wipe that smug grin off of the wine-loving tool's face.

" _'Love'_ seems a bit too strong a word to use."

"For such a stickler, you're always using that word to talk about humans."

"That's because I know I'll always love them, more than anything." England's lips curled up in a twisted grin.

"Ugh, the conviction with which you speak in makes me feel that you will indeed make good on that promise, even after 'death' is to come rasping with his cold, cruel hands."

England's smirk grew wider. "Then for the time being, let us enjoy ourselves."

…

"Look at you, my strong, stupid, powerful, brittle Hero."

"You always take whatever chance to insult me, don't 'cha?"

"I can't help it, you just have such a repulsive character."

"Psh – why don't you be a darling and go to the infirmary. There're all kinds of nuts there for you to keep talking to, babe. You'll be right at home." America huffed and quickly crashed into the nearby chair, distressed and defeated. It was a moment of incredible vulnerability.

"Alfred, you shouldn't mock them." He chastised, reverting back to the role of a mentor. America hated it, the way England flip-flopped from one persona to the next. It was like he could not pick whether he wanted to be loved or hated.

"Unlike them…we have several lifetimes of baggage, centuries of piled up grudges and angst and a whole hospital's worth of bandages to cover up our scars. But…we have all the time in the world to heal too.

They have just the one chance."

…

 **[?]**

There's a cold and sickness that clings through the air, stifling and suffocating all inside – that is, if they were not already dead.

A man was seated on the edge of a bed, of which carried a soldier, well into his mid-forties. He grasped his hand tightly, while the sweet soldier rambled meaningless drivel about his life.

He rambled on and on, but America still listened. He tried to tell himself he didn't care, this was but one man, one man from an entire race he had no remorse, no sympathy, no tolerance for, for they all brought this upon themselves. It's not like this was uncommon.

"My, my – daughter -wife. They're, so sweet, she's home, with, want to see?"

But oh, how America wished he could save.

He rambled on and on until he stopped.

…

"Shh, it's ok to be afraid darling. Look here – you don't have to look." Arthur gently rested Alfred's face between his palms, guiding his heavy and scared eyes away from the horror.

"They're all – they're all, because I – "

"I know, I know, it's always painful." 

England wrapped his hand around the back of America's head, bringing it in to rest on his shoulders. He wiped away the stray tears on his uniform, which had been stained with a lifetime's worth of blood and dirt.

"It's okay, Alfred, darling, shh."

The next morning, Alfred was seated lifelessly at the edge of the hospital bed, now replaced with a new wounded soul. England came in from behind, wrapping his arms around his eyes and kissed him softly on the forehead.

"Not yet, Alfred, don't look yet."

What are they, if not monsters then shells, hollow and empty.

…

 **[1945]**

"I have met Japan, and he's a very proud man. Much too prideful for his own good. Maintaining one's honour is extremely important to his people. I wager he'd rather die than suffer the humiliation of surrendering to us." He says, but there's a glint of malicious intent in those deep green eyes that contradictorily spoke of hellfire and luscious fields. "That is, unless he were to face a complete and utter defeat at our hands. I'm afraid the time for diplomacy has long since passed, wouldn't you agree?"

Alfred puts his hands under his chin, contemplating. The light reflecting from his glasses masks his eyes from England, and when he finally smiles – _cold and cruel, as if someone else had –_

England scowls back.

"Guess it's time we bring in the big boys, huh?" He smirks wider. 

"America O' America, thou vicious and violent. Who's to rummage through the carnage of barrage of brutality you inflict?"

Alfred smiles sharply. Shutting his eyes, he stretches his arms behind his back and lets his head fall back calmly.

"No one, 'cause there won't be anything but ash and dust when we blow 'em to bits."

…

 **[1945]**

"Do you think it was right – what I did was the right thing to do?"

"Only time will tell."

"It was – it just seemed like it was the only choice. Japan, he – "

"I know, Love."

"You're so calm."

"And you, not enough so. You were perfectly fine with it a few weeks ago," _Too fine, if he could add. But he was a hypocrite to consider it cruel when he himself urged America in the first place._ "What do you expect me to do about it? Rage at the Gods – which in this case would be you, wouldn't it? Or are you our Saviour?" Arthur added mockingly. "Weren't you going on about being the bad guy?

No nation comes out unscathed from battle. We all commit atrocities, it's not a matter of 'if' but 'when'. In the end, the world moves on, and the world forgets. No one learns because they think they'll be the ones who can do it better the next time."

"God," America groaned. "I just find it so fucking awfully ironic. If we're all doomed as you say we are, why can we feel it? Why can we feel the effects of our inevitable consequences. It's so unfair."

"If you ask me? I'd say it is simply human nature."

"But we're not human."

"No, not in the traditional sense, I suppose not. But we are made out of them. If we do not experience life as harshly as they do, could we really call ourselves nations?"

"I don't – Arthur, I don't know – I don't want to be a nation anymore. I never wanted to be." Alfred stated openly. It was so sad, yet so sweet of him to bare his soul to England and expect comfort.

"Oh, my darling," He kissed the top of his head lovingly, though America found it rather patronizing, the spot burning. "that was never a choice for you to make."

…

 **[1947]**

"The whole world is watching you right now, so what do you intend to do about it? You have chosen your path, but do you think you've made the right decision?"

"You know, some want to see you fall, they're jealous but mostly, they're scared after the stunt you pulled with Japan. A little upstart nation like you rising to power? It's threatening."

"Still, there are others who want Russia knocked down a peg or two. He's got better control of his little pawns than you do. Just what were you thinking going into this?" America stood off to the side, watching the sun set from their shared space, the wind breezing by and rustling his wild mane of hair. He hasn't said a word at all, taking in this final moment of peace. England would have none of it.

"I will not stand idly behind and watch you slowly destroying yourself and everyone else! If you think this is some small little game and just because you're a rising superpower that you can win easily then I want you to know how _wrong_ you are!" America finally looked at him, disinterested, lonely and quiet. It was so endearing England forgot to be mean."You idiot. I am asking you because the whole world is watching _us_ right now. I am with you, for better, for worse."

…

 **[1950]**

"Guess what day it is tomorrow?"

"What, our anniversary?"

America pouts. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

England sighed tiredly, "No, nothing like that. Or, well, perhaps just a bit." America punched him mindlessly in the shoulder, though of course, with his level of insensitivity and self-control, it might as well have been intentional.

"Watch yourself," England hissed. "It just feels quite surreal. I thought it impossible for that time to end."

"Yeah, well, you didn't believe that the plane was possible a few years ago."

England blanches, red-faced. "I – well – I mean, really! Who comes up with the idea of projecting a few thousand pounds of metal into the atmosphere at ridiculous speeds? Really, your ludicrous ideas astound me sometimes. It was impractical, at the time."

"Yeah, well. It seems the times are upon us. Just admit that you're an old man with stubborn beliefs and hate being proven wrong even if you are – ow!" America rubbed the spot where his cheek burned, though it really didn't hurt at all.

"I've made some pretty unexpected things myself, love."

"Haha, yeah…but you gotta admit, it's awesome."

"Of course, what a feat of human potential, truly."

"Hey, I did most of the work, though. Those Wright bros would still be testing out that old, rusty pile of crap if it weren't for me!"

"I highly doubt it. I daresay they would have been faster had you not been there pestering and glaring hell into their backs all the time." America grinned broadly and slung a heavy arm around England's shoulders.

"Ye' of little faith, my dear England. Anyway, I wasn't referring to that. I was talking about us."

"How nauseatingly romantic."

"Aww, you're blushing!"

"Absolutely _not!_ "

…

They're both naked after a late night session. America, after finishing has chosen to flop down and roll onto his side, still warm inside England. He doesn't pull out, and England does not complain, but rather recede into his embrace wholly. Ironically, it is the pure domesticity and comfort of the scenario that makes England decidedly uncomfortable.

America mouths the back of his ear eliciting a low moan.

"You're cute, baby."

"Oh shut up, you. You're no more than a babe in our years."

"Well, that would put you in a pretty compromising position, _babe_."

"That monster you're currently hiding in me is perfectly legal, last I checked." And he was still sore and stretched out from his last checking too. Alfred, being too caught up in his personal problems to have really been all there.

"Why, thanks sugar!" And he was grinning widely, seeming to be genuinely proud. England rolls his eyes.

"We all know you're the one with the kink for older people you stupid, sick, twisted boy. You're quite Freudian aren't you?"

"Well, you know me, Alfred _F_. Jones, 'F' for Freud-Fucking-Fanatic."

"Excuse me, _what_?" Arthur struggles to keep the laugh in his voice unnoticeable and making the attempt to squirm away. He's barely got Alfred's length halfway out when he's pulled back by strong arms around his waist and shoulder, feeling wetness against the marks along his neck.

"You. Heard. Me." Alfred says, punctuating each word with a loud _smack_ of his lips. "Freud was onto something, I tell you."

"He was also a bit of a nut." Arthur hummed. They stayed like this for a while, breathing together in the buzzing of the night.

"I sometimes wonder if you married me because you wanted some form of stability in your life."

"I love you, England."

"You love peace, too."

"Can I ask you something?"

"When has my permission ever stopped you from getting what you wanted?"

America chuckled. "Fair point. I just wonder, back when I was really young," England stiffened. The past was always an open wound. "I remember there was one of your leaders that you were really close to. I used to think it was so weird and just – wrong, since she was a human. So, I guess I still want to know. Did you love her?"

England thought on his response.

"Yes, I suppose I did. Well, to the extent that any of us can 'love'. She was as rare a human. Even a lovely summer's day could hardly compare to someone as divine and dazzling as she."

America tried not to be too jealous whenever England's praise was directed at anyone else, dead for over four centuries or not.

"Married to her country, ain't that right?" He strained out, forcing a laugh.

"Mm, indeed. I actually still have the ring." He finally managed to get America to pull out and reached over to the nightstand. Sure enough, it was right there, strung with a silver chain alongside America's safely guarded dog tags – remnants from the war – was an emerald ring, green as the earth. America remembers then that digging up the sliver of green pastoral reveals all the endless layers of dirt underneath, right to the core.

"Should I be worried you still have keepsakes from your old flames? America joked.

"Quiet you." He whacked America across the head as he flopped back down the soft duvet.

"Though I do have to admit," he said, unclasping the chain. "It is a bit too elaborate for my tastes. I'm into more minimal things these days. I believe it is time I put it away."

…

 **[1949]**

"It's more of a pyrrhic victory, considering the state of things."

"Jeez, downer much."

England nodded solemnly, "It's all a sorry state of affairs."

…

"There is an absolutely _thin_ line between protection and control and I daresay you are bordering on it." England hissed.

"Can't you see I'm trying to fucking _save_ you? Who knows what Russia could do if he gets his hands on you!" 

"Oh of course, right, when I don't have almighty America around how will the wife ever remain safe? Why not replace me with one of your safely hidden bombs, stick a hole in it and you've got a wonderful little cum-bucket."

"Fuck you England! Don't tell me you're actually siding with that Commie bastard, I'll fucking kill – "

"Oh will you listen to yourself? You're sounding stupider and more deranged than usual! I would never associate myself with that ideology but I have half a mind to go see the blasted Russian right now, at least I can hope not to have any of your misdirected anger blown up in my bloody face."

"…that's what you think, huh?"

"Plain and simple." Too angry to think, England picked up the pillow by his side and threw it at America, where it landed on his chest and fell to the floor pathetically.

"You're on the couch tonight."

"Fuck that, I'm out. See ya tomorrow."

…

 **[1962]**

"…Alfred is getting too out of hand. I can't just sit by idly and watch him destroy himself."

"Da, so that is why you've decided to come to me for my help."

England scowled hatefully, glaring at the man.

"Be clear on this; I have no intentions in following you. But, with the state of things now, it just seems like the best course of action. I merely asked to be left alone in the coming affairs."

"Hmm, so the coward has finally chosen to reveal his true nature?" 

Russia – Ivan, as he had known him as at one point, gleamed at him with those violet, inhumane eyes.

"You're still terrible."

"At least I don't throw my allies, or should I say _lovers_ – " England flinched. "Under the bus."

"You're quite the hypocrite, England, but I do have to say that is very fun about you. I've always thought you were a bit weaker than you let on but this is quite the amusement!"

Arthur could barely look up, the guilt was eating him up."

"Let's just shake on it, shall we."

With his secret involvement with Russia, France eventually switched over too, and more, and more, until the war was done.

…

 **[1963]**

"Why did you have to do that?"

England shrugged. "War is war. You were getting," _Cold. Monstrous. Terrifying._ "Troublesome. I'll tell you now, hopeless grief is useless, might as well not bother and simply carry on. There's no need to waste more energy on a done deed."

"…you're so cruel, England."

"A lot of things, we can be hurt by, but we cannot shed tears."

It's an odd thing, hurting the ones we love.

"Alfred," he asked, soft-spoken in his delivery. "Do you ever find yourself yearning for a time that never was?"

America laughed with no humour.

"Really? All the time, sweetcheeks."

…

 **[1960]**

"There was a time where I did look forward to the future as well, looking towards what was fresh and to the new glory and riches it would bring me. 'Look to the future,' I said, 'the past is blind!' But now, its all gone, and I hopelessly cling onto it. I'm an old maid with the weight of the hourglass upon me, it's sands dripping down in droplets until I am all but buried."

"Do you hear their cries?" His voice was wobbly. And America thought for sure, that England was insane, for there was no one soul with a voice who could scream right now.

It was deathly silent.

"What, you ask, have these cold cruel hands done?"

They have raised you.

England shook his head vehemently, backing away from Alfred – from what he's become. "I wanted you to be pure and good, but how could you? I daresay you're the most monstrous of us all."

"You really don't hold back, do you?"

"Darling, if I didn't hold back you wouldn't be here today. And perhaps all the more shame on me for doing so."

"You're the worst." he spat.

"And you, my darling, follow in close second."

…

"It wasn't my fault."

America didn't back down at England's glare. "They had it coming. And, after all _this_ , you can't possibly still love humans, right?"

"And if I said I did." Arthur stated.

"Then I'd say that you were full of shit, and that I don't believe you. How could you, anyway? We're all in this mess because of them. It's not my war, not really, and neither is it yours."

"Carry on with what you think, then. It is perfectly like you to dodge responsibility, believe what you want and go about things your own way. You have the capacity to be so self-sacrificial and noble, yet you're unbelievably selfish sometimes. And for what? This hopeless notion of peace you so desperately cling onto?"

"I just don't want any more wars. No more fights."

England laughed, the sound echoing through the place.

"Hopeless _and_ delusional!"

 **…**

 **[1950]**

"You know babe, sometimes I think we're total opposites, but then other times I think about it more and I just feel that that can't be right. If not how could we love each other?"

"Oh, I don't know. If you were ever even slightly similar to me I don't think I could handle it. I would murder you."

"Aren't – weren't you close to Prussia, though?"

"That prick? And just what are you insinuating?"

"You and Prussia just have that asshole smarminess about you guys, and you both love chaos in your own ways. Also, you're both pretty mean." That's a gross understatement. England has always been more than just mean. America knows him, and knows of the sharp man's talent for weaving words into weapons and plunging knives into people's backs without so much as a speck of remorse.

It was the way England played, and damn if he didn't play it well.

"A few small traits are hardly worth comparing." He brushed off nonchalantly.

"These 'small traits' seem pretty core to me." He shrugs, scratching the back of his head. He looks up, unsure.

"You really would kill someone who's like you?" 

"Of course, why in heaven's name would I have that hellspawn alive?"

…

 **[1969]**

England looks to see man walk on the moon. He hasn't seen Alfred – not since he betrayed him and left him to fend for his own. But for everything that has ever happened to Alfred, he still manages to thrive, like a weed growing out of a bed of dead flowers.

 _"…how beauteous."_ He whispers, awestricken. And yet, his heart plummets as he reaches out his hand, fingertips lightly grazing the fuzzy screen, filled with a distinct sense of dread.

…

 **[1957]**

"Bloody – bloody hell Alfred _let go of me already –_ "

A sickeningly loud snap could be heard, flooding the already dark room with a distinctive sense of dread.

England slowly looked down to where his arm was still in a vice grip and sporting blues and blacks, curtesy of America. Only now, it had bent at where America was holding onto, cutting a clean right angle. If it didn't hurt so much he would have laughed at how comical it was.

America had stood there the whole time, completely silent.

"Arthur, I'll…get the first aid." He finally spoke up, and moved as if to drag England along with him.

England snatched his broken arm away, resulting in a sharp flare of pain that shot straight up said arm, but he refused to let himself flinch.

"I'll do it myself, you tosser."

America stopped at the doorway, casting one last worried glance behind but by then, England was gone.

…

 **[1999]**

"You were a mistake."

"Fuck off, Francis, where's Arthur?"

"Hiding from you, obviously."

"What, is he scared? Arthur doesn't get scared, and definitely not because of me. Besides, he _owes_ me this."

"Don't you get it?" France sneered. "England was never as perfect as you thought he was. No matter what you think he owes you, it does not matter to him at all, so you _need_ to stop this madness of yours before – "

 _CRACK._

 _Ah shit,_ he thought, as the _drip, drip, drip_ of blood and small bits of bone dropped to the floor.

 _Can't get anything out him now._

…

 **[1962]**

" _Fuck_ Arthur! How could you? You swore yourself to me! If not as England then at least as Arthur, and I to you, as Alfred and America.

Did our marriage mean nothing to you?"

"Our people first, remember? War is war, Mister United States. I bid you good luck out there."

Alfred's expression becomes unreadable. England starts to wonder when it became so that he couldn't read the bright-eyed golden boy in front of him. But then he remembers that as a child, he had always been unpredictable.

None of this would have happened if he weren't, after all.

"At least we'll always have the battlefield to come back to. See you then." _There, we will commence our true love, for is that not the only way we know how to express it? Scars and blood scattered across the cage of our beings._

"…And you too, England."

And they shook hands.

…

Alfred grips harshly at the wound Arthur has left him to deal with. He finds it almost ironic that they bleed the same colours as the humans – _Red._

"Careful darling, your true colours are bleeding."

…

 **[1991]**

"Why're you even here?"

"It's called emotional support."

"Oh, you mean the one thing you're even worse at than cooking?"

"Would you stop being so childish?" England drawled. "It's getting tiresome."

"I wasn't the one who _fucking stabbed me in the back – "_

"You were getting too out of control, you needed to be stopped, and many of us thought the same too. Grow up, Alfred."

"You chose that Russian bastard over me."

"I chose nothing but to alleviate the situation." Their voices were barely above a whisper now, hushed and short.

"Is that what you call alleviation?" He said, incredulously.

"We're all still here aren't we!" England snapped.

"After _you_ left me – "

"Oh please, don't play the victim. What about that time you bloody left me with the group of Krauts to fend for myself?"

"That was because you _'accidentally'_ stabbed me with your fucking knife." America drawls.

"You're right, I should have just used it to cut out your tongue, perhaps if I did it enough times, the regenerative tissues will wither away, and it'll fail to ever grow back." 

"Hah, tough luck babe, no matter how many times _your_ brittle heart gets cut to pieces it still grows back," He leaned in smugly and smirks. "It still lets me in, no matter how much you don't deserve it."

England huffs and looks away, willing his heart to stop beating so furiously. "I don't know what you're trying to say."

He didn't have to look at America to see the unhinged smile on his face.

"It means you're mine. For better, for worse."

…

 **[1962]**

"Aren't your old stories famous for glorifying death or something?"

"Glorifying death? Oh no, they merely serve to remind the living of what happens when they step out of line."

 _Memento Mori, dear Alfred._

…

 **[1996]**

"You have an extremely counterproductive misanthropy, especially looking at all the things yours have achieved in a short amount of time."

"For the love of God, don't call them _mine_ , gross." He whined in a childish manner. "And it's like you purposely mistake my actions! I didn't achieve any of that for them, I did it all for you."

"'But what would the point be if the flowers bear none of the fruits of war' isn't that right, Alfred? You are what you love, and you love what you are. Did you not once claim them as yours, in order to leave me?"

"Nah, look at me. I don't love my people, not in the way I should, yet I'm supposed to be them."

"How long will you go on about your spiel? You're such a classic case of biting the hand that feeds you." _In more instances than one_ was left unsaid between them.

"I'm too hungry."

"Power-hungry, it seems. Just out with it already, I married you, left and then came back. I _know_ you, and maybe you genuinely don't know it but you're always looking for whatever you can do to get back to the top. I daresay, you're the most monstrous of us all."

…

"Your piano skills are abysmal."

"Vera Lynn?"

"Mhm."

"Yeah, I guess she's right, there'll always be an England to look forward to."

"We're resilient. The land of Hope and Glory stands strong."

"Ha! You oldies have been out to get each other for centuries and yet you still manage to crawl your way up from the grave."

"What can I say, love. It's a talent."

"There's just something about our accents that drive you bloody Yanks nuts, isn't that right, _poppet._ "

America groaned and turned away in embarrassment, whether at England's antics or the subtext England didn't know, "you just like the sound of your own voice, you dick."

"Seems to me that you do too."

"Then what is it about us dumb-as-bricks _Yanks_ that makes you Brits get your panties in a bunch?"

England nodded very seriously. "It's quite unfortunate, I'm afraid we're all cursed to find attractiveness in immense stupidity."

…

 **[1950]**

"You were a pirate once – "

"Privateer." England insists immediately.

"Call it what you want," America waved, scrunching his face as he did.

"Terminology is important." England clipped.

"Yeah, so call it what you want. But no amount of sugar can hide the taste of what's really underneath."

England raised his eyebrow disbelievingly, and his eyes that spoke of hellfire and poison were pointed at the piles of cakes and confectionery for him and Alfred alone. Too much for the both of them to consume and too sweet for any real satisfaction once they were done. An economic boom, they called it.

He picked up a cube of sugar and turned it in his hands. Looking past it, he saw that America had piled his coffee with an unbearable amount more.

"You seem to insist otherwise."

…

 **[1900]**

"Mark my words England, one day, man will touch the sky."

England nods, though he doesn't believe a word of what America tells him when he's in his delusional state – if the boy ever got out of it. He has only ever known the feeling of the ground rooted firmly beneath his two feet.

…

 **[1997]**

"To be a nation without humans is as if having a body with no backbone."

"You're using the same terminology as them."

"Indeed, why would I not?" Curt as always.

"Terminology is important." He spat back.

"God, Alfred. I just can't with you anymore."

…

 **[2000]**

The turn of the century.

"What have you done?" England's tone was harsh and brisk and quick – as if he were in a rush to know. America thinks of telling him to slow down, they have all the time in the world now, of course, now that he's back again.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't – stop being so casual! Russia, Francis – everyone, _what did you do_?"

America's fist clenches tightly in his pockets at England's voice, seeping with worry.

But it was fine.

There was no more others for him to be worried about anyway.

"I did what I had to."

And the look of horror, absolute and pure, marring Arthur's face was enough to make him calm again.

"Told ya I'd win, right? Look at how peaceful it is now." He pointed towards the skies, it was tinted with unearthly, vivid messes of oranges and greens, and the lands that it once towered over was completely and utterly decimated.

And Alfred reached forward to cup Arthur's face and pull him into a forceful kiss. The smile when he pulled back – or rather, when England roughly pushed back – was serene and absolutely mad.

He held Arthur as if he wanted to dance underneath these unfamiliar skies.

"Isn't it paradise?"

…

 **[1942]**

"You old guys should stop starting wars if you don't know what you're doing ya know."

"If Europe had intended for the war to be as bad as this they wouldn't have come in riding with their little pets and toys."

Arthur sighed, righting his rifle again. "No one could have expected this. How could they? We were all so sure we would know how to handle it."

…

 **[1959]**

"You're so stupid."

 _"We're_ stupid."

England sighs, forlorn. "Well, I can't disagree with that."

…

 **[1692]**

The poor boy was crying. After witnessing everything he had seen today, he had come back home talking of being a hero.

"Why do you so desperately want to be a hero young Alfred? It's nothing more than a title."

"Because…if I'm a hero, I won't hurt anyone, right?"

 _Oh, my precious child._

..

 **[1961]**

"I don't usually subscribe to reductive views of morality but I'm starting to think you're the villain in this whole thing."

"Take that back right now." He said in a low voice.

"Or what?" England spat at him. "O' America, you've always been like that – more obsessed with your enemies than your allies that it takes just a single dollop of red to have you chasing after them."

 _With your finger on the trigger, waiting for the right moment to scream bloody murder and go ballistic with your nukes._

…

 **[1917]**

"Hey, England. Remember when I asked you once when I was younger where I would go if I died?"

"I said Heaven."

"Yeah, do you still think that?"

"Depends on what your heaven is. I'm quite certain that the most terrible of people can find pockets of heaven in their eternal damnation. And I'm starting to think that this is your paradise."

"My paradise is when I'm with you, baby."

"I'm thankful to be miserable with you too then, Love."

"Ha! We're inseparable – like a set aren't we? I'm Depraved and you're Damned."

England rather thinks that he's Blind, and America the Madmen leading them both to their Brave New.

"We're whole." He says after a while.

"Holy?"

"Whole."

…

 **[?]**

"You've stopped using my name."

"Yes."

"I noticed, but I'm stubborn and I guess petty so I did the same. Did you realise?"

"Mm."

"Of course you would. You're sharp as a knife, babe."

"You know, you used to fight for your people, once." His words came out so damned _soft_. The fight within him had all but died out.

"Nah, I really think I just used that as an excuse. Some way or another, I was always fighting for you."

…

"But oh lonely days, oh lovely days, what path shall you take me next?" He sing-songed, in this tiny corner where he kept him squirreled away from the rest of the world. Not that anyone could attempt any form of rescue anymore.

The door opened, and in its place stood a tall young man, dressed lazily but still devilishly attractive.

"Hey, babe! Spouting your weird poetry again, huh?" And he spreads his arms wide for a crushing hug. And England, - _oh, this fair dear England whom God made so mighty_ – resigned to let his eyes shut tight and willingly fall in.

To the arms of a monster.

 _…yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less travelled by,_

 _And that has made all the difference._

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thanks for reading! I don't know what I wrote but it was fun.


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